Doing God's Work

Like most of us, you probably know one.

They walk our fair city like Janette Scott, looking like the rest of us, for the most part, frequenting our coffee shops, our markets, and our restaurants. Oh, there are signs, to be sure. The coffee is fair trade, the produce invariably organic, and the time spent perusing the menu just a little too short--and does that slight frame belie an amino acid deficiency? But here in Madison, bastion of social justice and home to myriad subcultures, these telltale warnings often go unnoticed. Like pod people, they lurk unseen beneath the thin veneer of society.

I speak, of course, of the vegetarians.

Vegetarians are a peculiar species, largely alien to most foodies, and they come in several prominent varieties. There are the sad, misguided, "healthy" vegetarians, though experience shows that this is more and more often a weak secondary justification for some other cause. Never mind that anorexia will lower your cholesterol, too; that doesn't mean it's a good idea. Let's be blunt here: animal products are nutritionally the best there are. Yes, eating several pounds of bacon on a daily basis will kill you (and is the way I hope to finally shuffle off), but back in reality, our species survived by adapting to eat the ones that didn't. Vegans in this camp are far worse. Just because it's possible to make it through a day without falling over dead doesn't mean that it's advisable, and raising children this way is a risky proposition at best. Give your kids some damn chicken, people.

And if you're a crazy New Zealand vegan who believes that the rest of us are "literally made up from the bodies of others," then I have nothing but contempt for your asinine thoughts and fundamental misunderstanding of, well, everything. (Their abuse of the word "literally" is an issue for another day.) Whence come the nutrients for their carrots, I wonder?

The only vegetarians really worth considering, I think, are those who do it for moral reasons. It's true that for most of these, their vegetarianism is a college lark, a brief spark of nonconformist morality that permits entry into a patchouli-scented clique before they move to the suburbs and pursue careers in computer programming or banking. That said, there exists in this group an intelligent, conscientious core that cares more about ethical than juvenile posturing. And they're right to pose these questions. Tradition, the fact that we as a species and as a culture have eaten meat for the entirety of our existence, does not absolve us of at least weighing the morality of our actions. Sure, there are various ethical and philosophical arguments, of course, and they fill volumes. What are our responsibilities to other lives, to other species, to our ecosystems? But, when it comes down to it, the question is basic: is it justifiable to kill another living being for pure pleasure?

One could argue that the cultural significance of food outweighs any moral qualms, that the benefits it brings to human society outweigh any harm done to . There is the simple pleasure of preparing the same chicken soup that has been in the family for generations, and the unifying excitement of a foray into the traditional dish of another culture, shared with a friend who has imported a preparation of pig snouts or chicken feet from her home country. These are noble reasons, and they do matter. But ultimately they aren't the truth.

One could argue that cows and chickens exist today in meaningful numbers only because of human agriculture, and if that means a whole lot of them live boring lives and get eaten, then so be it--is a goverment sponsored cow preserve somewhere in Kansas really a preferable alternative? Would the chickens really, really have better lives struggling for food in the wild, eventually dying of disease or being torn apart by a different predator? I don't think so, but that argument isn't the truth, either.

The truth is that I have no qualms about boiling an overgrown water cockroach for something so delicious as homard à l'Américaine, and then serving it to my friends. I feel no guilt tearing a mindless bivalve from its shell and slurping down its sublime, briny perfection, not for anyone else, but out of pure, animal selfishness. The truth is, as animals, I afford us the same luxury that I afford the rest of them. The tiger may not be burdened by morality, but it gets to enjoy its meal all the same. So why deny ourselves that same primal pleasure? Frankly, we're going to appreciate it more. We might even use truffles.

That said, vegetarianism for the right reasons is, I think, worthy of respect, if only for the small, moral core that seeks to elevate humanity above its savage tendencies, and I've often said that this city deserves a decent vegetarian restaurant. We need a Green Zebra, an affirmative destination to wash away the adolescent rebellion we've seen in horrendous entries like Peacemeal, a Frankenstein's monster sewn together by people who clearly cared more about their politics than they did their food . But because I'm a heartless creature, a slave to my appetites and perplexed by those who aren't, I'd be remiss not share a web comic that I read this morning, one that I think will resonate with my fellow carnivorous Madisonians.


Of course, we selfish, predatory humans are not, contrary to popular belief, the only ones with a sense of humor.

This morning, within an hour of reading the above comic, an errant vegetarian friend now living in New York state sent me this photograph. It comes from the Rochester Public Market, a magical place where shoppers can also purchase faux Prada handbags, samurai swords of dubious quality, and incense redolent with the heady aromas of "Pleasures" or "Pussy."

The goat's probably delicious, to be sure, but I think the picture speaks for itself.

Dave, next trip to the Irony Cafe is on me.

Heart of Darkness

Milwaukee. Shit.

It should have been an easy mission. Hell, there was even a registry. I was to go to a gourmet store, buy a few silicone mats, maybe a pie dish, and my good friend and his new wife would be set for a happy life of baking together. I accepted the mission. What the hell else was I going to do?

Of course, once you set foot in a gourmet store, the bullshit piles up so fast you need wings to stay above it. "Everyone needs a great knife," I justified to myself, ignoring the bakeware I was carrying for the bride. "Besides, even if someone else has the same idea, they'll be able to cook together."

As I approached the cutlery display, the Valkyries gathered to the swelling of strings and my gung-ho plan began to take form. "I'll start them off with a Wüsthof paring knife"--I loved my Wüsthofs, back at home, back in civilization--"and then, when they see how much of a difference it makes, they'll be able to get a serious chef's knife." The Wagner rose to a crescendo as the clerk handed me the blade, and I prepared to turn back.

Then I saw it: the distinctive Damascus pattern, the ebony Pikka handle, the prohibitive price. A Japanese blade. A Shun. I had spoken to some who had gone up the river before me, turning from safer waters to their Globals, wild-eyed men who waded into prep undaunted by slippery metal handles. I had used several santokus, tools that my foreigner's hands were never able to properly master. But I recently had the opportunity to use an eight-inch Shun chef's, and while that blade was smaller than I preferred, the handle suited my pinch grip well, and I could feel how much lighter and sharper it was compared to my European armament. As I continued upriver, my mission faded into the display of half-hallucinated fireworks.


Never get out of the boat. Absolutely God damn right. Unless you were going all the way.

I bought the ten-inch.

They will tell me that I have gone totally insane, and that my methods are unsound. The boys back in Solingen will say that I've gone native. But still I construct my own Empire: chickens are broken down more quickly and finely diced onions are effortless. I produce chiffonades, duxelles and other relics recovered from the former colonists.

I watch a snail crawl along its razor edge. Crawling, slithering--and surviving. That's my dream. That's my nightmare. I reach for shallots and Vouvray.

But what would be next? A deba? A chukabocho? Would the madness end?

The horror. The horror.

One Night Stand

I’m not the first to compare food with sex, and I won’t be the last, but the comparison has become a cliché for a reason. At their best, both arouse the five senses and the animal center of our brain, eventually leaving us happily exhausted—and perhaps in search of a cigarette— but always craving more.

Like most people in Madison who care about food, I bravely crawl out of bed on Saturday mornings, fighting through Friday nights of too little sleep and too much beer, for my regular fling at the Capitol Square. After hitting the snooze for the fourth time, I’m hopefully still early enough to beat the rush of strollers and undergrads. This week I’m not; I’ll have to walk around them. Shallots and the now ubiquitous heirloom tomatoes are in season, and I’m running low on the former while my Green Zebra plant isn’t liking the new balcony as much as the old one. And there are, of course, the recurrent pleasures of the market: another taste of Hook’s 12-year, (an excellent, strong cheddar that is the equivalent of a culinary kneecapping), the continued search to determine which vendor produces the best of whatever cut of pork I’m looking for that week, the inevitably failed attempt to resist Katie’s superlative pastry—the best I’ve had outside of Paris— and Tim’s flawless macchiato at Café Soleil. Before the morning is out, I’ll have plans for a beet and chevre pizza, and I’ll be carrying an impulsively purchased rabbit, no clear design in mind, but mumbling incoherently about the virtues of braising.

When the tryst is done, I head home relatively satisfied, with a familiar smile that says “until next time, dear.” But this week betrayal is already in my heart. As if by a painted, bar time harlot in a tube top and go-go boots, I’ve been beckoned. I know what’s going to happen, and I go anyway.

I want to like Taste of Madison. I really do. Yet it’s hard to take seriously a food festival that features such varied culinary low points as Little Caesar’s, Red Lobster, and the confusingly named Carlos O’Kelly’s. Arriving from State Street, the mind boggles to process a purportedly Mexican restaurant proudly flying, alongside the Mexican and American flags, six two-foot, inflatable Tabasco bottles. We all know these places exist, of course, but do we as a city want to honor them in the same space where, only hours before, an artisan cheesemaker lamented that she would love to sell her goat’s milk, but that government regulations meant that it wasn’t legally viable?

There are, thankfully, exceptions. Bluefies’ jerk chicken nachos reflect their white-washed corporate origins, and their cheese sauce is questionable, but the chicken is properly cooked and seasoned, adding a mild but pleasant bite in place of the standard jalapeños. (I pass on their cookie dough egg rolls, a dessert that never should have made it to the concept stage in the first place.) Café Costa Rica’s crisp patacones (unripe plantains mashed into small cakes and deep fried) are easily my favorite dish of the day. Served by the cook, they contrast nicely with the restaurant’s rich red beans, and fresh cilantro lightens the dish without feeling like the tacked-on addition it often becomes. I’ll be finding my way to their Butler Street location soon. While it’s geographically just down the street, their soulful, authentic food is worlds apart from the celebrated mediocrity that is most of our city’s dubious gastronomic gala.

In the end, as I make my walk home in the harsh light of day, I feel a little dirtier. No, I don’t regret what I’ve done. But thinking of rabbit, patacones, and novelty hot sauce balloons, I can’t shake the feeling that we can do better.